✞[ III. ]✞ Station of the Cross

 [ † ] Head down, shoulders hunched, the imposing man retreats into the heavily creased folds of his cassock, shying back into the shadow of St. Peter's when the sharply biting wind threatened to tear the fibres of his skin. The rising, first-quarter moon shone silver in the reflection of his spectacles, darkening skies encasing him in its chill.

Over the past week the city's weather had remained frigid enough to where even the blankets on the Archbishop's bed had ceased to keep him warm, and the frost adhered to stone, sinking deeper and deeper into his bones the more he'd spent time outside and pushing himself to take care of his ward though he did not immediately realize it.

The Priest's lips parted to expel a trail of mist from his hot breath, and he inhaled, wintry air pushing forcefully into his nasal cavities.

Sneezes quite suddenly, covering his mouth to stifle a fit of coughing. [ † ]

O'...O' bother.

[ooc: The suppression of his regenerative powers has made his immune system equivalent to that of a normal human. That being said, he is equally as vulnerable to illness as anyone else. While he's normally able to withstand a good deal of punishment, the combined efforts of not sleeping well, not eating well, and neglecting his own needs has finally taken its toll.

This is for a comment-log set back to this thread, but feel free to respond.]